She was lonely, then, with a sudden shock of acute distress. She felt suddenly, with positive terror, that she did not belong to anyone at all. Philip was miles and miles away; as though it were the voice of prophecy, something seemed to tell her that she would never see him again. The service then seemed endless—she waited desperately for it to close. At last, when they all moved on to 22 Bryanston Square, her impatience simply seemed more than she could control. The presents were there, and many, many beautiful clothes and shining collars and cakes that no one wanted to eat, and over and over again, a voice (it seemed always the same voice) saying: “How nice! How delightful!... so glad ... so fortunate....” At last she was on her way back to Westminster. She had now only this one thought, that unless she were very quick she would never see Philip again. He had said that he would come to her for a moment after the wedding, and, when at the doorway of the drawing-room she caught a reflection of his figure in the mirror, her heart bounded with relief. How silly of her. What had she supposed? Nevertheless, quite breathlessly, she caught his hand. “Oh, Phil! I’m so glad!... Come up to the schoolroom. We shall be alone there!” The schoolroom, that had once been the nursery, packed away at the very top of the house, was bathed with the rich evening glow. He caught her in his arms, held her, and she kissed him, passionately, with clinging, eager kisses. Then, with a little happy sigh, she released him. The old shabby room, with its old shabby books, Charlotte Mary Yonge and Mrs. Ewing and Henry, and the Christmas Supplements on the walls and the old grate that seemed still to be sunk in happy reveries of roasted chestnuts and toffee and toast, reassured her. “Oh, Phil!” she cried. “I thought I was never going to get to you!” She looked at him, carefully, luxuriously, with all the happiness of possessing something known and proved and loved. Why, were it the ugliest face in the world, the oldest, shabbiest body, nothing now could change her attachment. That was why, with true love, old age and decay did not, could not matter—and here, after all, was _her_ possession, as far from old age as anyone could be, strong and thick-set and with the whole of life before it! But he seemed tired and depressed. He was very quiet, and sat there close to her, holding her hand, loving her, but subdued, saying very little. He _had_ changed. He was not now that eager, voluble figure that had burst through the fog on that first wonderful evening so long ago. “Phil—you’re tired!” she said quickly, looking up into his eyes. “Yes. I am rather,” he answered. “It’s been awfully hot. Was it very splendid?” “The wedding?... No, horrid.... Just like any other, and I can’t tell you anything about it, because I didn’t notice a thing.”